And you are----"
"Now, don't you begin," growled Bob.
"I never saw such a modest fellow," laughed Betty, giving his free hand a
little squeeze.
"Huh! Libbie will want to put a laurel wreath on my brow if I climb up
there. See! There is a bunch of laurels right over there--those
glossy-leaved, runty sort of trees. Not for me! I am going to lead Jim out
ahead, and you climb up, if you want to, and come along with the rest of
the bunch. Ride my horse, if you will, Betty."
"So you'd run away from a girl!" scoffed Betty, but laughing. "You are no
hero, Bob Henderson."
"Sure I'm not," he agreed cheerfully. "And I'd run away from a girl like
Libbie any day. I wonder how Timothy Derby stands for her. But he's almost
as mushy as a soft pumpkin!"
With this disrespectful observation Bob started off with the gray horse
and Betty scrambled up the bank down which she had plunged so heedlessly.
Bobby was one of those who had dismounted at the brink of the ravine, and
she held out a brown hand to Betty as the latter scrambled up the last
yard or two of the steep bank and helped her to a secure footing.
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